Page 8 of The Temptation

When Lucia’s mouth gapes open and her pretty brown eyes widen, I dip my face, staring down at the plate of food in front of me. I don’t even know why I told her that. Discussing my past is something I rarely do. It’s a part of my life I don’t like to revisit.

“Romeo,” she says gently, reaching across the table to wrap her dainty fingers over mine. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need or want your sympathy,” I grumble, snatching my hand away.

Her pity makes me feel like that scared and helpless kid again, and I hate that. I’ve worked hard over the years to let that person go.

She stares at me, blinking a few times before saying, “Okay, then.”

When she rises from the table a second later, taking her plate to the sink, I blow out a long breath.

The slump of her shoulders tells me I’ve hurt her, and I feel bad about that, but I can’t stand being pitied for what I went through growing up. It leaves me feeling raw and exposed, as if everyone sees me as someone broken. I may have clawed my way out of that shithole, but it didn’t ruin me. If anything, it made me tougher. More resilient.

I lean back in my chair, quietly observing her as she rinses her plate and moves to the fridge to grab a coveredglass bowl. She grabs a pot from the cupboard, places it on the stovetop, and flicks on one of the burners.

Her back remains to me as she scrapes the contents of the bowl into the pot to warm up what I presume is the custard, and a heavy weight settles on my chest as I watch her.

I don’t understand why everything this woman does turns me inside fucking out?

Sighing, I drop my hands into my lap, palms flat against my thighs, and rub them down the front of my trousers. Before I even realise what I’m doing, my mouth starts moving.

“My mother is addicted to prescription meds,” I admit quietly. “When I was a kid, I’d sometimes end up staying with my uncle—her brother—whenever she got locked up or was shacked up with some random guy who didn’t want a kid around. It was my aunt who used to make that dessert.”

Lucia glances over her shoulder, giving a slight nod, but her features remain stoic.

“I’m glad you had somewhere safe to go,” she replies before turning her attention back to the stove.

When I catch her swiping her finger under her eye a moment later, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I can count on one hand the number of people who have given a shit about me in my life, so seeing her reaction is unexpected and, dare I say, disarming.

It makes me want to lean in instead of pull away, even though every instinct within me screams not to do that.

Her eyes avoid mine when she places a small glass bowl down in front of me. “I hope it’s as good as your aunt’s,” she says.

“You’re not having any?” I ask when she retakes her seat.

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Because of what I said?”

“No,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to mine for a split second before dropping again. “It’s been a long day. I’m tired. After I clean up, I’m going to shower and head to bed.”

I don’t buy it for a second, but I’m not about to call her out on it.

“If you want to head to bed now, I can tidy up in here,” I offer because I could use the space myself.

I’ve spent my life building walls to feel nothing, yet somehow, in just a matter of hours, she has everything inside me unravelling.

“It’s my job to clean up after you.”

I rear back slightly as tension flares in my jaw. “It’s not your job to do anything for me, Lucia,” I growl.

She shrinks a little in her seat and looks away. “It’s how I was raised,” she says softly.

“Hey, let’s get something straight.” I reach out, grasp her chin, and guide her face back to me. “You cook, I clean.Capire(Understand)?”

“In my world?—”

“I live in your fucking world, Lucia, remember?” I cut her off, locking my eyes with hers. “If you cook, then I’m damn well going to pull my weight and clean up afterwards. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”